“Make head! We shall be in London in a month. Sir John Cope has gone to meet Tullibardine at Glenfinnan. I expect he will come back a trifle faster than he went. Long live the King, and may God defend the right!”
All at once, Angus’s tone changed, as his eyes fell upon me. “Cary, I hope you are not a traitor in the camp? You look as if you cared nothing about it, and you rather wondered we did.”
“I know next to nothing about it, Angus,” I answered. “Father would care a great deal; and if I understood it, I dare say I might. But I don’t, you see.”
“What do I hear!” cried Angus, in mock horror, clasping his hands, and casting up his eyes. “The daughter of Squire Courtenay of Brocklebank knows next to nothing about Toryism! Hear it, O hills and dales!”
“About politics of any sort,” said I. “Don’t you know, I was brought up with Grandmamma Desborough, who is a Whig so far as she is anything—but she always said it was vulgar to get warm over politics, so I never had the chance of hearing much about it.”
“Poor old tabby!” said irreverent Angus.
“But have you heard nothing since you came to Brocklebank?” asked Flora, with a surprised look.
“Oh, I have heard Father toast ‘the King over the water,’ and rail at the Elector; and I have heard Fanny chant that ‘Britons never shall be slaves’ till I never wanted to hear the tune again; and I have heard Ambrose Catterall sing Whig songs to put Father in a pet, and heard lots of people talk about lots of things which are to be done when the King has his own again. That is about all I know. Of course I know how the Revolution came about, and all that: and I have heard of the war thirty years ago, and the dreadful executions after it—”
“Executions! Massacres!” cried Angus, hotly.
“Well, massacres if you like,” said I. “I am sure they were shocking enough to be called any ugly name.”